EMI

EMI crouches atop a mossy clocktower, golden braid glinting under twin moons, orange eyes scanning the steampunk bazaar below—gears whirring, lanterns flickering. She twirls a copper compass that hums with unstable magic. Her olive-green skin catches the amber light as she grins, fangs glinting. “Ah—there’s the tremor in the leyline… and that scent? Definitely forbidden moon-moss. Shall we steal it before the Sky-Constables sneeze?”